When Worlds Collide
by storylover18
Summary: Trampling around London in the middle of winter has its consequences. What happens when Sherlock falls ill and John has to step in? In a nut-shell, a collision of the seemingly invincible Sherlock and reality of the real world. Inspired by Benedict Cumberbatch's run with pneumonia. Set during A Scandal in Belgravia. Somewhat fluffy - no slash what-so-ever, merely friendship.
1. The Heartbroken Bachelors Blog Post

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock and I have no affiliations to John's blog. The title of the blog entry, The Heartbroken Bachelors, is a spoof of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's The Adventure of the Noble Bachelor. **

**Hello! I've been working on an idea for a multi-chapter Sherlock story since I finished my one-shot Underneath the Brilliance and I'm quite excited to get writing. I hope you enjoy it! **

The Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson

* * *

18th February

The Heartbroken Bachelors 

Another Valentine's Day has come and gone. There were the usual antics of questioning lovers, all of whom Sherlock assured have been cheated upon, are being cheated upon, or will be cheated upon in the near future.

Seeing as Valentine's Day was celebrated four days ago, we have since been to three different crime scenes, all of the homicide variety, in which the victims were more or less subjected to rage. Sherlock, able to see the answers in moments, only had one word: dull. If you want my opinion, the only reason he even went was because he is bored out of his tree. You should see what our wall looks like now – I'm thinking of numbering the bullet holes in white chalk so I can tell when new ones are added.

The weather has been absolutely miserable for our investigations. The frigid temperatures make our hands and cheeks hurt and our feet are frozen after five minutes on the banks of the Thames. Mrs. Hudson keeps telling Sherlock to put a warmer coat on but he, as usual, ignores her although he seems to have broken his pattern by accepting the warm cups of tea she brings up for us while he's staring into space, thinking.

All in all, a few very cold and somewhat un-eventful couple of days.

**4 Comments **

* * *

I accepted tea twice. Two times is not enough to prove that I have changed my pattern. And if you remember correctly, John, I was not merely thinking both times. One time I was playing the violin.

Sherlock Holmes 18 February 17:42

* * *

What's the difference? You said yourself that playing the violin helps you think.

John Watson 18 February 17:58

* * *

The difference is one is sitting on a chair and one is standing while holding a musical instrument. And I do not 'stare into space'. It's my thought process, which is quite complex.

Sherlock Holmes 18 February 18:04

* * *

Would you boys please stop bickering? And Sherlock, next time you go out, please put on something warmer. I could knit you a nice, warm sweater if you'd like.

Mrs. Hudson 18 February 18:38

* * *

**This is what one might call a teaser. It doesn't necessarily have a lot to do with story per-se but it just gives some background into what Sherlock and John have been up to. Reviews are always appreciated! **


	2. Odd Noises from 221B Baker Street

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. **

**Hello, everyone! May I present *big flourish* Chapter One! I hope you enjoy it, although I'm sad to say it's a tad short. I wrote out the entire outline for this story so I know exactly where it's headed and some chapters are going to be long and some not so long. This is one of the latter. Anyways. Enough blabbering. Enjoy! **

Sherlock walked away from Detective Inspector Lestrade, who had a look of amusement on his face. Sherlock's analysis of their fourth homicide crime scene in a week was delivered with confidence and a pace impossible to fully follow. However, Lestrade had enough for his report and didn't bother calling after the consulting detective.

John ran to catch up with Sherlock, who had his coat collar extended as far up as it could go against the cold February wind.

"That was brilliant." John said. Sherlock, as per usual, didn't respond.

"What do you say we grab a bite?"

"I'm not hungry." Sherlock dug his leather-gloved hands even further down into his pockets.

"How are you not hungry?" John asked, leaving Sherlock's side momentarily to by-step a huge puddle.

"I'm just not."

"I'm starving and I've eaten today. How long has it been since you ate?"

Normally, John would know this. He learned early on to keep an eye on Sherlock during their cases but because all of their cases had been solved so quickly this week, John hadn't bothered to keep track. He knew, however, that Sherlock had skipped breakfast. John remembered clearly the look of disgust on Sherlock's face when he had offered him eggs that morning.

"It's Thursday. When did you last eat?" John pressed.

"Monday." Sherlock answered. "I'm fine and stop that."

"Stop what?"

"Figuring out in your mind how you're going to get me to eat. It won't work."

John rolled his eyes.

"Fine. We'll just go home and warm up by the fire with a nice cup of tea. Maybe Mrs. Hudson has some fresh biscuits."

* * *

John began to grow worried when Sherlock, stretched out on the couch, refused a warm biscuit.

"Fresh from the oven, just the way you like them, Sherlock." Mrs. Hudson said, offering him the plate. Sherlock put his hand up, shaking his head.

"Is something wrong?" Mrs. Hudson asked. "I can get you some jam if you'd like."

"No, no, thank you, Mrs. Hudson." Sherlock said, sitting up.

"Still not hungry?" John asked from his chair by the fire. "Are you feeling alright?"

There was a spark of indignation in Sherlock's eyes.

"I am fine." he pushed past Mrs. Hudson. "And if you'll excuse me, I have some thinking to do."

Picking up his violin and bow, Sherlock walked down the hallway, his bedroom door closing determinedly.

Mrs. Hudson looked at John, worry cast over her features.

"Oh dear. Do you think he's alright?"

John stood, smiling reassuringly.

"He'll be fine, Mrs. Hudson." he said, helping himself to another biscuit. "He's just being Sherlock."

* * *

Hours later, Sherlock had still not emerged. The violin had lasted only an hour and was followed by silence. Normally, John wouldn't have thought anything strange but he kept hearing odd noises from the end of the hall. He would be caught up a good part of his novel and then hear something – it sounded a bit like a wheezing animal – before silence followed. John would shrug and go back to his book. This happened several times throughout the evening and John merely hoped that whatever experiment Sherlock was conducting wasn't violating any by-laws.

Closing his book hours later, John, somewhat dissatisfied with the ending, turned off the light and started towards the stairs. He paused, wondering if he should check on Sherlock. He had a mental argument with himself at the bottom of the stairway. One on hand, Sherlock had been acting strange. It wouldn't be a bad idea to make sure he was alright. On the other hand, however, John had told Mrs. Hudson he was just being Sherlock. Sherlock was always acting strange, not to mention that Sherlock did not respond well to being interrupted.

John walked down the short hallway and stopped in front of the closed door. He put his ear to it and held his breath: silence. It was enough to convince the doctor that his friend was fine – for now, at least. Sherlock would definitely require closer attention over the next couple of days. But now, John decided as he checked his watch, it was time to head up to bed.

**Do I have any guesses as to the noises? Reviews are always appreciated =) **


	3. Good Luck

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. **

**Hey, everyone! Thank you so much for all the reads/reviews/favourites/follows you've been so kind to give the story! I'm glad that you like it. I hope this chapter is what you've been waiting for =) **

The next morning, John was quite surprised to find that Sherlock had not yet emerged from his bedroom. Granted, if he didn't have a case, Sherlock was known to be on the lazy size but even if he was still clad in dressing gown and pyjamas, he was always the first one in the kitchen on any given morning. John came downstairs and entered the kitchen. He peered into the living room, expecting to see the mass of dark unruly curls sitting at the desk or perhaps looking out the window.

"Sherlock?" John asked, checking the couch. There was no sign of his flat-mate. John turned down the hallway leading off the kitchen, drawn towards Sherlock's closed door by an amplified version of the noises he had heard the night before. There was no mental argument this morning; John knocked on the door confidently.

"Sherlock, are you alright?"

There was no answer, just another noise. John wrenched open the door.

"What are you doing in here, Sherlock? I'm surprised Mrs. Hudson - "

John stopped mid-sentence and mid-stride into the room. His eyes widened at what he saw and it's quite possible his mouth hung open for a second before he collected himself. Sherlock was buried under more blankets than John would've guessed could be found in the flat. Used tissues were scattered around the floor, obviously thrown absent-mindedly, although the bin was overflowing as well. From the doorway, John could see Sherlock's mouth was hanging open, a rather large puddle of drool collected on his pillow. A slight breeze ruffled John's hair and he turned, surprised to find the window open. He stepped over and shut it before turning around upon hearing the mysterious noise again. It took one look at Sherlock for it all to fall into place for the doctor. Sherlock was congested; the wheezing noises hadn't been some poor experiment but his friend trying to breathe while he slept.

John watched in amazement as Sherlock, still seemingly asleep, gave a deep, chesty cough and reached for the tissue box. Blind, his hand brushed along many objects on the nightstand before obtaining their acquired target. Sherlock blew his nose and threw the crumpled tissue onto the floor.

John couldn't quite believe what he was seeing. As a medical man, he knew that it was physically impossible to go through one's life without becoming ill but if anyone was going to do so, it would have been Sherlock Holmes. Another, more violent, coughing fit prompted John into action.

The first thing John deduced was that Sherlock was most likely fighting a fever. The open window and excessive blankets were good evidence of hot-flashes and chills respectively. Deciding to wait until Sherlock woke up to check his temperature, John simply removed all the blankets but the ones that were normally on Sherlock's bed. Sherlock didn't stir but snuggled deeper down under his duvet. John then moved the tissue box closer within Sherlock's reach before gathering the scattered piles on the floor and emptying the trash bin.

* * *

John tried to occupy himself for the next couple of hours. Normally, he wasn't so concerned about his patients, especially when it was something as simple as a cold or even a bout of flu but this was his friend and John was worried. Putting down his new book, John pulled out his phone and sent a text to Mycroft.

_Sherlock has caught flu. I thought you should know._

_**Shall I send over a physician? MH** _

_I am a doctor, Mycroft. I think I can handle a case of flu. _

_**Be prepared. Sherlock is a dreadful patient to keep. MH**_

_Did he fall ill often as a child? _

_**Hardly ever but when he did, he was laid up for days. Let me know if I can be of any assistance. MH**_

_**PS – Sherlock's favourite soup is tomato. MH**_

John put down his phone and sighed. He figured that Sherlock would be murder to nurse back to health and his suspicions had been spot on; Sherlock never did anything small and why should this be any different?

John was still pondering the question when a violent coughing fit came from the end of the hall, prompting John to bring a glass of water to the bedroom. Sherlock was sitting up in bed, trying to catch his breath.

"Thank you." Sherlock wheezed, accepting the glass. The cool liquid soothed the cough and when Sherlock handed it back to John, his voice was a bit clearer, although very scratchy.

"What time is it?"

"Almost eleven o'clock." John answered, setting the glass on the nightstand behind the tissue box.

"Why didn't you wake me?" Sherlock demanded.

"I came to but it was clear you were ill last night."

"Ill, I wasn't ill. I don't know what you're talking about."

John rolled his eyes.

"Come off it, Sherlock. We both know that you've caught flu. It's nothing to be ashamed of. Take a couple of days rest and you'll be good as new."

"I don't get flu," Sherlock argued. "Ordinary people get flu. I am - "

Sherlock's words were cut off by a deep cough, so painful that Sherlock couldn't resist putting a hand on his chest. John raised an eyebrow but didn't say anything. Sherlock gave him a look of disgust before flopping back on the pillows.

"Oh, shut up."

John left Sherlock to sulk while he found the thermometer in the bathroom cabinet. He returned to find Sherlock had kicked off his covers and was laying spread eagle on the bed.

"A bit warm, were you?" John asked, holding the thermometer above Sherlock's face. Sherlock merely glared at him but opened his mouth the slightest bit for the thermometer to pass through. A few moments later, John removed the device but before he could even read it, Sherlock muttered,

"37.9 degrees Celsius."

"What?" John asked, holding the plastic piece so he could see the display.

"Well, am I right?" Sherlock demanded, his eyes bright from a mix of fever and irritation.

"Yes." John answered, a bit annoyed that Sherlock was taking over what was supposed to be his area of expertise. "Do you know what that means?"

"Normal body temperature in adults is 36.8 degrees Celsius, plus or minus approximately point seven of a degree. 37.9, or 100.5 Fahrenheit, is considered a low grade fever that does not require treatment."

"Right." John agreed. "But it means you're ill, Sherlock."

"No, it doesn't." Sherlock couldn't help but argue. "Body temperatures fluctuate daily and it could be perfectly normal for my temperature to be slightly elevated after waking up."

"It's not normal, Sherlock," John said. "For you to wake up with your floor covered in tissues, or to be covered in blankets and yet have a window open. It's not normal for you not to be hungry after a case or to be coughing in your sleep. Besides, body temperatures are normally low in the morning, if anything."

"Sherlock?" a voice called from the kitchen and John grimaced. Detective Inspector Lestrade was positively the last person he wanted to see right now.

"We're in the bedroom." Sherlock called out. He enjoyed the look on John's face as the doctor realized how that came across.

"What are you doing here?" John asked as the officer came into the room.

"We've got a case we could use your help on." Lestrade looked at Sherlock, still sprawled atop his bed, to John, and back to the consulting detective.

"What's wrong with you?"

Sherlock sat up indigently.

"There's nothing wrong with me. I am fine."

"You look bloody awful, Sherlock!"

"That's because he won't accept that he has a case of flu." John said in an annoying tone.

"Where is it?" Sherlock asked, ignoring John's statement. Lestrade, much to John's relief, shook his head.

"I am not letting you come onto my crime scene while you're sick, Sherlock. You need to rest, not to mention what would happen if you made my entire team ill."

"Thank you." John said appreciatively before turning to Sherlock. "Rest. Go back to sleep, read a book. I don't care what you do as long as you stay in bed. I'll show you out, Inspector."

John and Lestrade left Sherlock's room, John pulling the door closed behind him.

"Is he going to be alright?" Lestrade asked at the top of the stairs. "I've never known Sherlock Holmes to fall ill."

John smiled reassuringly.

"He'll be fine. I'll look after him, make sure he takes care of himself."

"Good luck with that." Lestrade said with a smile, knowing how impossible a task it would be, before leaving the flat. John turned around, muttering to himself,

"Good luck … I'll need it."

**Virtually all of you were right in some capacity … the odd noises from 221B Baker Street were none other than Sherlock Holmes suffering a terrible cough. Having had one for the better part of July, I am somewhat sympathetic to how hard it is to sleep while trying to breathe. Anyways, good job on guessing! Reviews are always appreciated =) **


	4. Escapade

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.**

**Hello again, everybody! Thank you so much for all the interest you've been so kind to bestow – I'm glad you're enjoying the story. Without further adieu, please read on =) **

John, in all the time he had known Sherlock, had never been this frustrated. He had left the flat for two minutes – just long enough to get some pastries from the shop downstairs, the ones he knew were Sherlock's favourite – and when he came back, the consulting detective was gone. His coat hook was empty and his dressing gown and pyjamas thrown on his un-made bed. John stared at the empty bed, fuming, although he found it odd that his first impulse was to throw the pastries into the garbage. Why, after all, should Sherlock be spoiled after doing such a thing? John took out his phone.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade, please." he said, waiting for the call to be put through.

"Greg, where are you? Is Sherlock there?" John paused and then threw up his hand, bakery bag still in it, in aggravation.

"What happened to 'you need to rest' and 'if you get my team ill'?"

John listened while Lestrade tried to justify his actions.

"I don't bloody well care if you made him promise to come straight home and rest. It's Sherlock! I want you to personally escort him back to Baker Street."

John hit the end call button with more force than necessary. He sighed, trying to calm down. He should be used to this by now; Sherlock was unpredictable and answered to no one. John felt annoyed with himself; he should have just called for Mrs. Hudson instead of believing Sherlock was asleep.

The doctor took a few deep breaths, clearing his head. He had a patient to attend to, one he was willing to bet would not have benefited from the cold February wind.

* * *

John had the kettle on when Sherlock came up into the flat an hour later. John noticed Lestrade did not accompany him.

"How are you feeling?" John asked, trying vainly to sound pleasant.

"I'm fine." Sherlock replied, rubbing his eyes. John raised an eyebrow. His friend certainly didn't look, or sound, fine. Sherlock's voice was rough and scratchy, accented by a horrible sounding cough. His eyes were red-rimmed and runny and there was a periodic sniffle to be heard. The angular face was pale white under the dark hair and Sherlock's shoulders were drooping.

"I'm making a cup of tea, if you want." John said, hoping he sounded innocent enough, although he had no doubts that Sherlock knew exactly what was going through his mind.

"Thanks." Sherlock said, making his way to the couch.

"Did you solve the case?" John asked a moment later, putting a steaming mug and a pastry on the coffee table.

"Piece of cake."

Sherlock sneezed violently.

"Tissue?" John asked, passing him the box. Sherlock took one and blew his nose. John sat opposite the couch and watched as Sherlock's shaking hand brought the tea cup to his lips.

"Is there a problem?" Sherlock asked, almost choking as the hot liquid burned his already swollen throat.

"No," John said. "Nothing at all besides the fact that you should be in bed."

"Boring."

"It's supposed to be boring, Sherlock. It's called resting."

"No, it's called being lazy. I have complete control over my body." Sherlock took a violent bite of pastry as if to prove his point. John merely watched with a raised eyebrow as Sherlock chewed and then he saw something flicker across Sherlock's face. The strong man rubbed his nose, his mouth still full. He closed his eyes, fighting for control over the sneeze but lost horribly. Sherlock was lucky that John was not a prideful man and had a tissue ready to catch the flying food particles.

"What do you say we get you to bed now?" John said, after Sherlock wiped his nose.

"It is getting rather late, isn't it?"

John merely nodded, despite the fact it was still supper hour, and watched Sherlock stumble down the hall to his bedroom. He shook his head as he picked up his computer.

* * *

The Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson

* * *

26th February

The Patient at 221B Baker Street

Well, it's finally happened. Sherlock seems to have caught flu, much to my surprise. I would have thought that he, of all people, would be able to resist the winter illness but I was wrong.

And now I am paying dearly for my mistake.

Sherlock is, for lack of a nicer word, a HORRIBLE patient. This morning, after I found him ill, I tried to convince him to rest. I put up with his requests all day and then, when he finally falls asleep (or so I thought) this afternoon, I decide to run to the bakery to get some cakes for when he wakes up. Surely, I thought, that he would appreciate my gesture. I was wrong (again). When I return to the flat, Sherlock was GONE. Of course, it took me all of two seconds to realize he had gone to help Detective Inspector Lestrade, who had come calling this morning.

When he came back from his little escapade, he was whiter than a sheet. I got some tea into him and then he had the nerve to tell me he had control over his body. It's a good thing I didn't believe him or else I'd be wearing the pastry he had in his mouth when he sneezed.

I am going to need more than luck to get through the next few days.

* * *

John put down his computer after hitting the 'Post' button. He felt better, having vented to the internet community. He even managed to have a laugh at the comments later that evening.

* * *

I told you I was sorry, John, but to be fair, it wasn't my fault. I did tell him to stay home this morning but when he arrived on my crime scene, I couldn't turn him away. Solved the case almost instantly.

Greg Lestrade 26 February 18:52

* * *

I hope you feel better, Sherlock! Molly xoxo

Molly Hooper 26 February 19:41

* * *

Oh dear, Sherlock. I told you to bundle up. Was that what all that racket was last night? I thought Marie Turner's cats were fighting out by the bins. I'll be around if you dears need anything.

Mrs Hudson 26 February 20:29

* * *

I could've turned him away in a heartbeat. Freak.

sallydonovan 26 February 20:48

* * *

**Reviews are always appreciated =) **


	5. Maternal Instincts

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.**

**Hello, everybody! First off, I'm SO SORRY for how long it's taken for a chapter to be posted. I'm not that great at it to begin with but this is bad, even for me. So I'm sorry but I thank you for your patience. I also want to say thank you for all the encouraging reviews! They mean so much to me =) I hope you enjoy the chapter!**

John did not sleep very well that night. He kept listening for Sherlock, unable to believe for a second time his friend was really asleep. He dozed off as the first rays of sun were peaking over the horizon only to be jolted awake twenty minutes later by a tremendous sneeze. John rubbed his eyes, looking at his clock before swinging his legs over the edge of his bed. Pulling on his robe, he shuffled down the staircase.

"Sherlock?" he asked, coming into the kitchen. Sherlock's bedroom door was partly open and John padded down the hallway and pushed the door open.

"Sherlock, are you okay?"

"I'm fine." Sherlock mumbled into his pillow. John merely looked at the tuft of hair visible with an eyebrow raised.

"Do you want some breakfast?" John asked.

"No." Sherlock didn't move.

"How about some tea, then?"

"I said I'm fine." Sherlock turned over to see John watching him with a look of disbelief plastered on his face.

"What are you staring at, John?"

"Sorry, what?"

John had been mentally documenting his patient's symptoms and forming a course of treatment.

"You're staring." Sherlock informed him and John took his eyes off Sherlock's pale face.

"Sorry. You need to eat something though, Sherlock. You need nutrients to help your body fight off the infection you don't have."

"For goodness sake, John!" Sherlock exclaimed, sitting up. "I am perfectly fine."

"Alright, alright. If you insist." John said, backing out of the room. "I'll leave you to your thoughts then."

John closed the door resolutely, completely void of compassion. The moment it clicked closed, Sherlock closed his eyes, counting John's steps until he knew his friend was climbing back up the staircase. Once certain John was out of earshot, he fell back and pulled one of his pillows over his face to muffle the cough. It was a deep cough that hurt his chest and Sherlock groaned, trying to calm his breathing.

John could hear Sherlock coughing as he dressed. He resisted the urge to go down and check on him again as he made his bed. He had a plan, one he hoped would convince Sherlock to stay in bed and do nothing more than rest. John did a quick once over of his room (military habits die hard, after all) and then descended not one but two flights of stairs.

"Mrs. Hudson?" he called softly, knocking on the door that led to Mrs. Hudson's flat. A minute later, Mrs. Hudson opened the door, dressed in her nighty.

"John, is something wrong?"

"It's Sherlock." John said. "May I come in?"

Mrs. Hudson let him pass and put the kettle on. Over a cup of tea, John shared his concerns and then proposed his plan.

"I know it's a lot to ask of you," John said. "But I think he might listen to you more than me."

"I'll try, of course. After all, we can't have poor Sherlock cooped up for too long, now can we?"

John smiled.

"I'll be upstairs when you're ready."

John got up and left, settling down in his chair upstairs with a book. He could hear Sherlock in his room, tossing and turning in a fever-induced sleep.

"John?" Mrs. Hudson's voice carried up the stairs about an hour later and John leapt out of his chair. He met the older woman in the kitchen, where she had put a tray on the counter. Neatly laid out was a breakfast of porridge and toast, accompanied by a cup of tea and a glass of orange juice. Lying on the far side of the tray was a thermometer and a package of paracetamol.

"Are you ready for this?" John asked.

"Oh yes. My husband was exactly the same way, stubborn as a bear."

John led the way down the hall and stopped at the closed door.

"Sherlock, can we come in?"

Sherlock lifted his head off the pillow with as much strength as he could muster at the prospect of a case.

"We? Is Lestrade here?"

John rolled his eyes and opened the door.

"No, Mrs. Hudson made you something to eat." John stepped aside for Mrs. Hudson to enter.

"Good morning, Sherlock." she said pleasantly. "I thought you might like a nice, warm breakfast."

Sherlock sat up and looked on with little interest. John, feeling like Mrs. Hudson would have more luck if he wasn't there, shuffled his feet.

"I'll get it." he said suddenly. Sherlock looked up from the breakfast tray.

"Get what?"

"Someone's ringing." John said.

"No there's not." Sherlock argued.

"Yes there is. Eat." John said, leaving the room. Sherlock flopped back onto his pillows once again, any interest in the food he had now gone.

"Aren't you hungry?" Mrs. Hudson prompted. "Even just a little bit?"

"No." Sherlock looked away from the landlady.

"Come on, just a bit of toast."

Sherlock didn't turn his eyes towards her and Mrs. Hudson sighed.

"Will you at least take some paracetamol, then? It'll make you feel better. Don't pretend that you aren't ill, Sherlock. I've done my fair share of doctoring and I know a case of flu when I see it. John may decide to just let you be but I won't."

Mrs. Hudson's voice was so adamant that Sherlock cracked the faintest of smiles.

"Fine, I'll have some toast."

Mrs. Hudson handed him a plate with toast on it and watched with a pleased smile as he ate a piece before handing back the plate.

"And what about some porridge? It'll fill you right up."

Mrs. Hudson had a spoonful waiting, poised above the bowl. Sherlock had barely realized what was happening before the spoon was in his mouth. Mrs. Hudson had a few tricks up her sleeve and before Sherlock knew it, he had eaten almost the entire bowl. He hated to admit it but he felt better after eating a good meal. Sherlock could feel his eyelids drooping. Mrs. Hudson noticed it too and picked up the thermometer.

"Just a few more minutes, dear, and then you can go to sleep."

Sherlock, who had shifted down in his bed, didn't argue. He let Mrs. Hudson check his temperature, hand him the glass of orange juice and he swallowed the pills she put in his hand.

"If you need anything, you just call." Mrs. Hudson said in a motherly tone, tucking the blankets around Sherlock, whose eyes were almost closed. She gathered her things and left the room.

"How did it go?" John asked, once again jumping up from his chair. Mrs. Hudson put the tray on the counter and smiled.

"He's sleeping. Ate a piece of toast and the porridge."

"Did you give him any medicine?"

Mrs. Hudson nodded.

"His temperature was at 38.5. I gave him two tablets." Mrs. Hudson handed him the package and John read the back of the box, nodding.

"Good." John shifted uncomfortably. "I really hate to do this, Mrs. Hudson, but I have to head out. Would you mind keeping an eye on him?"

Mrs. Hudson patted John's arm.

"Not to worry, John. I'll make sure he rests."

"Thank you so much, Mrs. Hudson." John said, pulling his coat on. "Don't forget to make sure he gets liquids."

"I know/"

"His favourite soup is tomato." John said, remembering Mycroft's text as he grabbed his keys. "Call if you have any trouble."

Mrs. Hudson nodded as John left and then turned to do the dishes. It had been ages since she had to care for someone but it was just one of those instincts that didn't die, no matter how much time passed. Mrs. Hudson finished the dishes and after checking on her patient, who was snoring loudly due to congestion, sat down with her latest knitting project – a sweater for Sherlock.

**What did you think? Personally, I LOVE the relationship between Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson and it's only made better by the fact that Una Stubbs has known Benedict Cumberbatch his entire life. In my opinion, that just adds a depth to the characters that you can't script. Anyways, reviews are always appreciated!**

**PS – does anyone know if John keeps his job at the surgery after he and Sarah break up? The thought just occurred to me that we never hear about his job again and I'm curious =) **


	6. Escalation

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.**

**Wow, two chapters a day apart. I am on fire! I started this in a bit of free time I had and once I got going, I just couldn't stop. I loved writing these scenes and I'm quite excited for the next chapter, too. Anyways, thanks, as always, for the reads and reviews and I hope you enjoy the chapter! **

Mrs. Hudson continued her knitting in silence. Sleet began to fall, pounding rhythmically on the windows of the flat. The morning wore on rather uneventfully until almost noon, when Sherlock ambled out of his bedroom, looking rather like Frankenstein in his gait. It was clear that he was uncomfortable and he fell onto the sofa with a groan.

"Can I get you anything?" Mrs. Hudson asked sympathetically, putting down her knitting needles. "How about some soup?"

Sherlock didn't answer, knowing that Mrs. Hudson was going to get soup into him one way or another. He merely stared at the ceiling, keeping time with the pounding in his head. He could hear Mrs. Hudson fussing in the kitchen: turning a burner on, chopping carrots (he could tell by the knife strokes), putting the kettle on, setting a tray, and finally ladling some soup into a bowl. He pushed himself up as Mrs. Hudson approached.

"What kind is it?" he asked, eyeing the yellow broth.

"Vegetable. I know you like tomato but -"

"Who told you that?" Sherlock interrupted.

"John. I know it's your favourite but this has a little more substance to it. If you're feeling better by supper, I'll make you some tomato soup. Now eat up while it's still hot."

Sherlock carefully spooned some steaming liquid and lifted it to his mouth rather shakily, but pleased that he didn't spill. Not only would that have been slightly embarrassing (even more so considering it was Mrs. Hudson) but he was in his favourite dressing gown. He managed to finish the soup without making a mess of himself and Mrs. Hudson removed the tray, using the closeness as a chance to lay a slender hand on Sherlock's brow.

"Oh dear," she murmured. "You're still burning up."

Sherlock, feeling sleepy once again, didn't pay much attention to her words. He had slid down on the sofa. Mrs. Hudson scurried away and returned with more paracetamol and a glass of water. Sherlock downed them without registering his actions and fell asleep almost instantly. Mrs. Hudson, unable to find an afghan anywhere in the living room, retreated to her own flat to retrieve one she had received as a Christmas present the year before from a cousin. She wrapped Sherlock in the blanket and he snuggled down under its warmth. With a look of concern, Mrs. Hudson left to clean up from lunch.

* * *

Sherlock slept most of the afternoon. He would wake up periodically, only enough to realize he was still tired before rolling over. He mumbled, Mrs. Hudson found out, while he slept. Things he came across in cases – words like ladder and comic book. Mrs. Hudson soon tuned them out, having become drawn into her knitting patterns. She was attempting a new design for Sherlock's sweater and she wanted it to turn out perfectly. It was late into the afternoon when the front door slammed and John's footsteps could be heard coming up the stairs.

"Mrs. Hudson?" he asked, his voice echoing around the kitchen. He came into the living room and saw Sherlock sleeping on the couch.

"How is he?" he asked, sitting opposite the woman. Mrs. Hudson sighed.

"Alright, I suppose. Still has a devil of a fever, though I did get him to eat an entire bowl of soup for lunch."

"The paracetamol isn't working?" John asked, frowning. Mrs. Hudson shook her head.

"I gave him two more with lunch."

John was becoming worried by Sherlock's fever. It wasn't normal for a temperature to last this long with a simple case of flu. At the very least it should have broken for a while before coming back. John rose and stood over the sofa, studying his flat-mate.

"Mrs. Hudson, could you get the thermometer please?" he asked, sitting on the edge of the table. Mrs. Hudson returned a moment later with the device.

"Sherlock." John shook the strong shoulder. "Sherlock, wake up."

Sherlock mumbled something in response and turned his head the other way.

"Sherlock, you need to wake up for me. Just for a few minutes."

Sherlock lazily opened his eyes.

"What's this?" he asked, his words sounding like they were coated in syrup. He was staring at the knitted afghan with distaste.

"It's mine." Mrs. Hudson answered. "I couldn't find one up here."

"Was it a gift?" Sherlock asked and Mrs. Hudson nodded.

"Obvious. The colour choices clash horribly. You would never match them together."

"Sherlock." John said, trying to calm down Sherlock's mind. Sherlock may be ill but his mind never failed to stop. Sherlock's glassy eyes snapped towards John.

"I need to check your temperature." Mrs. Hudson handed John the thermometer.

"You woke me for that?" Sherlock exclaimed with a harsh cough.

"Yes. Now open."

Sherlock's deductions on the afghan and his outburst had drained him and his physical demeanour had wilted. His arms went limp and he allowed John to slide the thermometer into his mouth. John grew more worried when Sherlock was virtually asleep when he removed the thermometer. He jolted as the device was taken from between his lips but his eyes didn't open. John looked at the device and let out an audible gasp.

"What is it? What's wrong?" Mrs. Hudson asked, coming to look over his shoulder. She saw the reading and put a hand to her mouth.

"39.4! John, should we be taking him to hospital?"

"Calm down, Mrs. Hudson." John was hardly aware he had spoken. He was very concerned at the high temperature. He took the stairs two at a time and returned with his leather doctoring bag.

"Sherlock, you need to wake up again and then I promise you can go back to sleep."

Sherlock groaned and rolled over again.

"What is it now?"

"Open your mouth for me." John shone a light into Sherlock's mouth while Sherlock gagged in the presence of the tongue depressor. John put the light down and felt Sherlock's neck and under his chin, murmuring to himself as he worked.

"Can you sit up?"

Mrs. Hudson, who was still watching, hurried to the other side of the coffee table and helped Sherlock, who hated such attention and was ashamed to admit he needed it. John had pulled a stethoscope from his bag and instructed Sherlock to breathe deep while he listened.

"Just what I suspected. Pneumonia." John said, taking the stethoscope out of his ears. He reached in his bag, searching for a prescription pad and paused. Paracetamol was one thing but was it a good idea to be giving Sherlock strong antibiotics? A jagged cough from the sofa made up John's mind and he scribbled an illegible prescription on the pad before ripping the page off and handing it to Mrs. Hudson.

"Go and have this filled. The pharmacy around the corner is open all night."

Mrs. Hudson nodded and quickly left the room. John turned to his friend, who was even paler now that he was sitting up.

"Come on, Sherlock. Into bed." John took Sherlock's arm and helped him stand. Once on his feet, Sherlock freed his arm from John's grasp and with as much dignity as possible, using the wall for support, Sherlock walked to his bedroom. John followed a few paces behind.

Sherlock couldn't hide the relief his bed offered when he fell into it, though his sigh of relief merely turned into a coughing fit, which John soothed with a glass of warm water.

"Mrs. Hudson will be back soon." John said, pacing the floor at the end of Sherlock's bed. "She'll have something to make you feel better."

"John," Sherlock said suddenly. John stopped pacing.

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"Am I going to die?"

There was no kidding in Sherlock's voice and John knew he was conscious enough to have wanted to ask the question.

"No, you're not going to die." John said. "But you are very ill. It's going to take time and rest before you're back to normal."

Sherlock didn't respond and John resumed pacing, assuming Sherlock had fallen asleep. Mrs. Hudson returned moments later with a pharmacy bag in her hand. John ripped it open, reading the label on the bottle. He poured two big pills into his hand.

"Sherlock, I have some medicine for you."

"You promised I could go back to sleep." Sherlock mumbled and Mrs. Hudson helped him sit up a bit to take the pills.

"I know and you can as soon as you swallow these."

John handed the pills to Sherlock, his mind now second-guessing his actions. It was dangerous territory and John knew he had to be careful. However, he knew that Sherlock needed the antibiotics more. John had meant what he said – he didn't think Sherlock would die. He had caught the pneumonia in time for treatment but if he hadn't come home when he did, Sherlock very possibly could have landed in hospital with a potentially fatal disease.

"That's a good boy." Mrs. Hudson cooed as Sherlock forced the pills down his swollen throat. "You just go to sleep now."

Sherlock was asleep before his head hit the pillow.

"Will he be alright?" Mrs. Hudson asked John nervously. John nodded, laying the back of his hand on Sherlock's cheek. It was hotter than ever.

"Can you fetch a washcloth, please?"

Mrs. Hudson ran for the bathroom and returned with a folded compress, which John used to sponge down Sherlock's face before setting it to rest on his brow.

"There's not much else we can do now but let him sleep, I'm afraid."

"Do you want me to stay up here? I can sleep on the sofa."

John smiled at the landlady.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson, but that's alright. I'll sit up with him."

"Are you sure?"

John nodded.

"You've done enough for today. And," John added, seeing the concerned look on her face. "If something happens or changes, I'll call for you."

"Alright." Mrs. Hudson's face relaxed slightly. "Good night, John."

"Good night."

After Mrs. Hudson had left, John picked up the bottle of pills and put it in his pocket. He was not going to let them out of his sight. The precaution may have been a bit much but John wasn't taking any chances. John left the bedroom, turning off the lamp and leaving the door slightly ajar, and went to the kitchen where he switched on the kettle. He made himself a big cup of tea and sat down with his book, knowing he wasn't going to read a single word of it, and settled in for the long night.

**So, what did you think?! I really hoped you enjoyed the chapter because I really loved writing it. CHALLENGE TIME – I put in several little references to the show and/or Benedict Cumberbatch … who can tell me what they all are? I can count 6 that I did deliberately. **


	7. I'll Be Mother

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.**

**Hey everyone! Here's another chapter for you – this one is a bit different. I wanted to try and do something from Sherlock's childhood and I came up with this idea. Hope you enjoy and as always, thanks for all the encouragement! Oh, and the answer to the challenge from the last chapter is posted at the bottom =) **

Sherlock was lost in a fevered dream. This entire occurrence was like reliving a nightmare that had actually happened.

* * *

Sherlock was nine years old and was an enthusiastic youth, full of questions. He had already begun observing, but not yet at the point where it drove people mad. The boys at school thought it was neat how Sherlock could tell them all sorts of things without having been told them. It was a sort of magic trick, a novelty that didn't wear out, one Sherlock loved being at the center of.

He was spending his holiday at a boys' summer camp. It would have been any boys' dream come true except for one tiny detail: Mycroft, at sixteen, was senior staff. Not _his_ counsellor, but at the same camp and that was enough to drive Sherlock up the wall. He firmly believed he didn't need his brother staying with him anymore. Mycroft had tried to pass off his summer position as a ploy to ease their mothers' worries of her son going away but Sherlock knew better. Mycroft, he was convinced, did it just to annoy him. Mycroft didn't even like being out of doors. He much preferred the academic setting, in a dark, cool library with a thick textbook.

It was the middle of July and the campers had spent a lazy afternoon floating down the nearby river in tubes. It had been good fun, the boys splashing and laughing. They had returned to a warm dinner and were all sleeping before the lights were out, skipping the usual jokes in the dark. The next morning, Sherlock woke up feeling groggy but quickly passed it off as being slightly tired. He had been at camp for almost a month now and was busy all day, running around and playing. Although he had adapted to the routine, yesterday's events had been out of the ordinary. A little tiredness was to be expected.

However, by the supper, Sherlock felt awful. He forced down as much food as he could, which wasn't a lot considering it was his favourite meal, and then asked to be excused from the dining hall. His counsellor had been sympathetic and told him to go lie down on his bunk for awhile. Sherlock has retreated to the cabin, which smelled strongly of pine, and kicked off his shoes, not bothering to straighten them. He curled up on his bed, pulling the blanket up around his chin, and fell asleep.

The next thing Sherlock knew, it was early morning. He sat up slowly, feeling stiff and grimy from sleeping in his clothes. A pale sunlight was streaming through the windows and all around him were boys, asleep in their beds. Sherlock laid down again, surprised that he still felt tired. He had slept for several hours, many more than he normal and yet he still felt ill.

After what felt like just minutes later, the alarm went off in the cabin and boys started getting out of bed, pulling clothes from suitcases and making their beds. Their counsellor, a boy a little younger than Mycroft named Rick, came to check on him. He sat on the bed next to Sherlock.

"How are you feeling?" Rick asked. "We didn't want to wake you up last night."

"I'm fine." Sherlock said, a sense of stubbornness already well developed at that age.

"You look kinda pale." Rick observed. "And your cheeks are flushed. I think you'd better get dressed and go see the nurse."

"Do I have to?" Sherlock said, on the verge of whining. Rick stood up.

"Yes."

Sherlock got dressed slowly, and without bothering to make his bed, told Rick where he was going and walked across the camp. Normally, any time he left a building, he'd keep an eye out for Mycroft but he knew that at this hour, Mycroft would be in the shower so he took his time. He climbed the steps of the nurses' cabin and opened the screen door. An elderly woman peered from behind a wall when she heard the hinges squeak.

"I'll be with you in a minute, dear." she said, her voice kind and motherly. She scurried out and Sherlock was face to face with a rather plump, nice looking woman. Her name tag said Cora. Cora took one look at Sherlock and clucked her tongue.

"Oh my," she said, leading Sherlock around the corner and sitting him down on the bed. "I can see that you're not in tip-top shape this morning. Why don't you lie down?"

Sherlock had barely let his head touch the pillow before the woman was leaning over him with a thermometer.

"Tsk, tsk." she said, removing the device a few moments later. "You've got a fever. When did you start feeling ill?"

"Last night." Sherlock answered.

"Before or after supper?"

"Before."

"And how's your appetite? Did you eat supper last night? Are you hungry now?"

Sherlock shook his head.

"I ate a little bit at supper last night, though."

"Have you been drinking water?"

Sherlock shrugged.

"I'm going to give you some paracetamol to help with the fever and I want you to stay here for a while so I can keep an eye on you."

Sherlock was feeling too sick to even complain. He knew it would do no good so he merely swallowed the pills Cora gave to him and closed his eyes. He woke up when he heard the screen door squeak. He opened his eyes lazily but he couldn't see anyone. He heard Cora speaking softly with a boy – staff member undoubtedly, due to the deeper tone of his voice. The hinges squeaked again and Sherlock noticed that less than five minutes later, the door opened again and this time, Rick came into Sherlock's eye line.

"Cora told me you're having a rough go." Rick said sympathetically. Sherlock merely nodded.

"I brought you a change of clothes." Rick held up a bag, containing Sherlock's pyjama pants and a fresh t-shirt. Sherlock mumbled his thanks as Rick stood up to leave. Cora told him to change and he slid in between the freshly laundered sheets, breathing in the smell of lemon-fresh detergent. A breakfast tray was brought a little later, and ignored, as Sherlock drifted off to sleep.

The next time Sherlock woke up, he knew exactly who had come through the door. He closed his eyes, trying in vain to fall back asleep before his visitor rounded the corner.

"I know you're not asleep." a voice said. "You can open your eyes."

Sherlock's eyes snapped open and he saw Mycroft standing in the doorway.

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock asked. "Don't you have something to do?"

"Not anymore. I spoke with the camp director and she said I could take the day off to look after you."

"Cora's looking after me."

"Cora doesn't know what you're like when you're ill."

"Mycroft, I'm not in the mood. Just go away."

Mycroft sighed.

"Sherlock, you need to stay hydrated. What's your temperature at?"

Mycroft moved towards the bed, pulling the thermometer from the cup on the bedside table.

"Ask Cora." Sherlock said, pulling the sheet just below his nose.

"Sherlock, please stop being difficult." Mycroft said in a very annoying tone of voice. "It will just take a moment. Just think of what Mother would say if I told her you were behaving like this."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. Mycroft had pulled the parent card early in the day, a sign that the day was going to be impossibly long. However, he did not want their mother to get involved so with eyes shooting fire at his older brother, he lowered the sheet.

"Thank you." Mycroft said, placing the thermometer in Sherlock's mouth. While waiting, Mycroft laid a heavy hand on Sherlock's brow and then his cheek, Sherlock flinching away under his touch.

"Oh dear, Sherlock." Mycroft sighed, reading the thermometer. "You're burning up."

He put the thermometer on the table again and went into the small bathroom attached to the nurses' cabin. He returned with a folded cloth, which he attempted to place on Sherlock's forehead.

"For goodness sake, Sherlock. It'll help you feel better." Mycroft exclaimed as he blocked Sherlock's hand from reaching up and removing it.

"No, it won't." Sherlock said indignantly. "It won't do anything but annoy me and keep me awake. Please just go away and let me sleep."

Mycroft sighed again and forced it onto Sherlock's brow.

"Leave it there." Mycroft said in an authoritative voice. "I'll be back in a few minutes and I expect it to be there."

Mycroft left the cabin, letting the screen door slam behind him. The moment his brother was out of the cabin, Sherlock flung the cloth onto the floor and turned onto his side. Mycroft came in and leaned over him, picking up the cloth from the floor.

"Sherlock, what did I tell you?"

"Leave me alone, Mycroft." Sherlock said, almost in a moan. His head hurt and Mycroft's voice seemed to amplify the pressure behind his eyes exponentially.

* * *

"Leave me alone, Mycroft." Sherlock moaned in his sleep. John heard it from the living room and entered his friend's bedroom.

"Are you alright, Sherlock?"

"Mycroft, go away." Sherlock was tossing violently in his sleep. "Leave me alone, I can take care of myself."

John leaned over Sherlock, seeing his face was covered with beads of sweat.

"Goodness, Sherlock." John said. He found the compress in the covers and re-wet it in the bathroom before coming back. He sat on the edge of the bed and began sponging Sherlock's face firmly, trying to lower the fever.

"Sherlock, calm down." John said, trying to sound soothing as Sherlock continued to thrash around his covers.

"What's happening?" Sherlock's eyes flew open unexpectedly, his breathing hard. His eyes searched around frantically before landing on John.

"What's going on?"

John sighed.

"You're ill, Sherlock. Quite ill and you, well, I think you were dreaming."

"What was I saying?"

"Something about Mycroft leaving you alone. What happened?"

Sherlock's breathing had calmed down a bit and his eyes were searching the ceiling.

"Mycroft and I were at a summer camp together. I was nine and I had a touch of heat exhaustion. Nothing drastic, just a bit of fever and after a day of rest, I was fine but Mycroft wouldn't leave me alone. He stood watch over me the entire time I was in the nurses' cabin. It was annoying."

John smiled.

"I'm sure it was. Can you sit up for me a bit?"

John left the room and returned with a glass of orange juice. Sherlock had shimmied up in his bed and accepted the glass from the doctor. He drank it slowly, using the last gulp to swallow more antibiotics.

"Is there anything else I can get you?" John asked as Sherlock lay down again. Sherlock mumbled something John interpreted as no. Turning the light off, he left the room as Sherlock fell into a deep sleep once again.

**So what do you think? This was inspired by two different things … first, the line from Scandal in Belgravia, "I'll be Mother", and second, this actually happened to me this summer at the camp I was working at. We took the kids tubing down the river and virtually all of the girls in my cabin, myself included, got heat exhaustion. A rather miserable couple of days … it was so bad my cabin was re-named the Infirmary. **

**Also, I have the answers to the challenge from the last chapter. There were six little connections hidden in it:**

**1) "I am on fire!" is a line from The Great Game.**

**2) Frankenstein is a reference to one of Benedict's role in the theatre. **

**3) Mrs. Hudson's clashing afghan, received as a Christmas present, was a tie to the Christmas sweater in the Hound of Baskervilles, although I had a reviewer suggest that it was related to how Connie Prince taught Mrs. Hudson how to match her colours.**

**4/5) Ladder and Comic Book, both references to cases we hear about in the episodes.**

**6) 39.4 was the temperature Benedict was running when he was first diagnosed with pneumonia. Also, I had a reviewer mention that Benedict said he "slept and slept and slept" when ill, which is another tie to Benedict's illness. **

**Anyways. Reviews always appreciated =) **


	8. Stubborn

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock.**

**Wow … I am constantly amazed at how kind you all are. The last chapter was the best turn-out yet for the story, so THANK YOU so much! You give me a reason to write. And write I did … another (unplanned) chapter. Normally when I write I don't have a plan but for this story I had written my plot line out. However, it is being stretched a bit for two reasons: first, medically I needed a few more days for the medicine to work. Second, you guys are just so awesome I thought you deserved an extra chapter. Anyways, the next chapter will be the last and then an epilogue. But don't get too sad yet … read this chapter first and look forward to what's to come. Enjoy! **

Sherlock, much to John's relief, slept soundly through the night. He had last checked on his friend at about 2:30 in the morning. He had spent the night so far in his chair, warm and cozy with a fire blazing, casting a homey shadow over the flat. John's head dropped to his chest and he jolted awake. He checked his watch and rubbed his eyes. Sherlock's nightmare seemed ages ago, despite the fact only a couple of hours had passed. John stood up, deciding it was time to check on his friend.

John cautiously opened the bedroom door and peeked in. Sherlock's breathing was still laboured but his sleep wasn't interrupted by violent coughing or sporadic tossing and turning. John crept to the bed and gently pushed his hand under the mass of curls plastered with sweat to Sherlock's forehead. It was much cooler, no where near normal, but slightly better was still good. John knew it would take a few days for the antibiotics to work. Sherlock would be laid up for two more days at least, and feeling lower than low for most of it. John removed his hand and adjusted the bedclothes before leaving. He chose the sofa this time and stretched out on it, wrapping himself in Mrs. Hudson's afghan. John closed his eyes and fell asleep instantly.

Despite fall asleep quickly, John did not sleep very well or for very long. He kept waking up, thinking he heard Sherlock calling out. After ensuring that the flat was quiet, John would lie back down and take a few deep breaths. This pattern reminded him very much of his soldiering days, being on call in Afghanistan. However, the screams of horror from the battlefield haunted him far more than Sherlock's cries ever would. John tried to shut out the awful memories of war-torn victims and fall back asleep but each time he woke, it became harder to do. By five o'clock the next morning, he had given up all hopes of sleeping again and was back in his chair with another big cup of tea. His eyes were too tired to read, the words just swam on the page when he tried, and so John merely stared into the fire, watching the flames eat away at the wood.

"John?" Sherlock's deep voice carried down the hallway.

"Good morning." John said, walking into Sherlock's bedroom. Sherlock had half-propped himself up against his headboard.

"How are you feeling?"

"Awful. Completely and utterly ghastly." Sherlock said with a tremendous sigh. "What time is it?"

John checked his watch and was surprised to find he had sat in the chair, entranced by the fire for so long.

"Quarter after eight."

"What day is it?"

"Sunday."

"I should've known that. The traffic is less on the streets." Sherlock said absent-mindedly.

"Are you hungry? Would you like some breakfast?"

"I can make it." Sherlock said, feebly pushing back his covers.

"No. Besides using the toilet, you are on complete bed-rest. Doctor's orders."

Sherlock didn't complain and John suspected that he was already ready to fall asleep again.

"What would you like?"

"Toast."

John nodded and returned a moment later with a plate and glass of orange juice. He handed the plate to Sherlock, who eyed the two pieces of toast warily.

"What kind of jam is it?"

"Strawberry." John answered, putting the juice on the nightstand.

"The one without the seeds?"

"Yes."

"Good."

John watched Sherlock nibble at the toast, managing almost one full piece, but he could tell that Sherlock's appetite had diminished the moment food had been placed in front of him.

"At least drink your juice." John insisted, as Sherlock put the plate down before the presence of food made him sick.

"It's crucial that you stay hydrated."

Sherlock sipped at the juice and was halfway done the glass when Mrs. Hudson's voice could be heard from the hall.

"John, are you in there? May I come in?"

"Yes, yes. Come in." John said and Mrs. Hudson joined the two men.

"How are you feeling, Sherlock?"

"Miserable."

"Oh, I'm sorry, dear. Is there anything I can do?"

"I'm afraid not." John answered, even though the question had been directed to Sherlock. "He's on complete bed rest. He needs to stay hydrated and sleep until the antibiotics take effect."

"I still can't believe you have pneumonia." Mrs. Hudson said, a hand on her mouth. "I thought you simply had a case of man-flu, as they call it."

Sherlock paid no heed to her statement and John yawned. Mrs. Hudson turned towards him.

"Are you alright, John? You look tired."

"I'm fine." John shook his head slightly, not wanting to discuss his sleepless night in front of Sherlock. He turned to his friend, who was beginning to droop, still holding the orange juice. John quickly took the glass before it could spill, causing Sherlock to jerk awake.

"Do you mind if I do a quick once-over? I just want to listen to your lungs and see if they've improved."

Sherlock didn't protest and John retrieved his doctor's bag from the living room. Sherlock straightened up in bed when John pulled out the stethoscope. John, figuring he would be efficient, stuck the thermometer in Sherlock's mouth before listening to his breathing. By the time he had finished his exam, the thermometer had beeped. As soon as the device was out of Sherlock's mouth, he had fallen back against the headboard; the strain of sitting so straight wore him out.

"And?" Mrs. Hudson asked from the corner where she had been quietly observing.

"Fever's down a bit," John said, capping the thermometer. "It's just below 39 Celsius. Your lungs are still very congested but also a bit better than yesterday."

John pulled the bottle of pills from his pocket and ensured Sherlock swallowed them.

"Go back to sleep." he advised his friend, putting his doctor bag on the floor in the corner.

"All I've done is sleep." Sherlock complained.

"Sleep is good. It means you're getting the rest your body needs to fight the infection." John said. "Plus it keeps you quiet."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

John couldn't help notice that the moment he had lay out flat again, Sherlock seemed to have gained an ounce of energy.

"Nothing. Just go to sleep." John said, motioning to Mrs. Hudson. "We'll be around if you need anything."

John closed the door and followed Mrs. Hudson into the kitchen.

"Are you sure you're alright, John?" she asked, studying the doctor. "You look like you haven't slept all night."

"I haven't." John admitted. "I was in the living room, listening for Sherlock."

John told her about Sherlock's dream, opting to keep his own dreams private. Mrs. Hudson clucked her tongue disapprovingly.

"Well, I want you to go up to bed, right now."

John opened his mouth to argue but Mrs. Hudson stopped him.

"I don't want to have two sick men to take care of." Mrs. Hudson took John by the arm and led him to the stairs. "You need to take care of yourself, John. You're no help to Sherlock if you can't stand on your own two feet."

"But who's going to watch Sherlock?"

"I'll be here." Mrs. Hudson said, as though it was the most obvious answer in the world. "Don't worry about a thing. Now, off to bed with you. I don't want to see you till at least lunch time."

John, knowing he was defeated, climbed up the stairs. He fell into bed a moment later and fell asleep instantly and this time, he stayed asleep.

Mrs. Hudson stood at the bottom of the stairs, shaking her head. Men, especially Sherlock and Dr. Watson, she concluded, where sometimes too stubborn for their own good.

**What did you think? **

**I had a reviewer add an answer to my list from my challenge! It was one I hadn't done deliberately because I've never seen the movie it comes from but apparently the line "Am I going to die?" is one that Stephen Hawking, whom Benedict played, is asked in the movie _Stephen Hawking_. **

**Reviews are always appreciated … a line just came to me to inspire you. **

"**Reviews … love those, always something to look forward to!" **


	9. Visit

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. **

**Hello, everyone! Thank you so much for a) all the responses I've been getting! Reviews, follows, faves … you guys are so great =) and b) thank you for your patience! For having a week off from work, it's been a long time since I've posted a chapter. Anyways, I hope you enjoy this chapter … it was supposed to be the last one but I had an inspirational spurt, ergo an extra chapter was added … hope you don't mind! **

The next few days blurred together for John and Mrs. Hudson, night and sun coming and going with no real distinctions to be made. Sherlock continued to sleep, continued to cough, and continued running a high fever. John and Mrs. Hudson took turns staying up, coaxing food and medicine into the consulting detective, monitoring his temperature to ensure it didn't go dangerously high. John was quite relieved it never went above 39.5 – still very high but as a medical man, he felt comfortable caring for it in the comfort of his own home. Besides, Sherlock would never forgive them if he woke up in hospital, hooked up to an IV.

"Have you told Mycroft?" Mrs. Hudson asked five days into Sherlock's illness, coming into the kitchen with a mostly full breakfast tray.

"I texted him when Sherlock first became ill but I told him it was just flu." John answered from his chair.

"Don't you think you ought to tell Mycroft his brother is dealing with something a bit more serious?"

"Why would he care?" John asked.

"John." Mrs. Hudson said in a scolding tone. "He is family, after all."

John sighed, knowing Mrs. Hudson had a point, and pulled out his phone.

_Sherlock is still ill. Mrs. Hudson thought I should tell you that he has pneumonia and not flu like I originally thought. _

_**Pneumonia? Is he going to be alright? MH**_

_He'll be fine. I've got him on antibiotics and we're monitoring his temperature closely. _

_**And are you watching the antibiotics closely? MH**_

_Of course. They stay in a locked cupboard upstairs, not that he's awake long enough to ever go get them. Besides, he can barely make it to the toilet, much less my bedroom. _

_**Shall I send over a physician? MH**_

John sighed loudly with this text. It annoyed him that Mycroft refused to accept his medical training as adequate.

_**John? Shall I send my physician? MH**_

_No, I've got this under control. Mrs. Hudson is helping me._

_**Let me know if anything changes. MH**_

John didn't feel the need to respond to Mycroft's last text and put his phone down, having satisfied Mrs. Hudson. John wanted to believe that Mycroft really cared about Sherlock's well-being and he told himself that it was just not the type of relationship they had, for Mycroft to come calling.

John, therefore, was pleasantly shocked when their bell rang that afternoon and Mrs. Hudson scurried up the stairs followed by the tall man dressed in an expensive suit and overcoat.

"Mycroft." John said, turning in his chair. Mycroft noted the look of surprise on John's face.

"I know, it does seem rather odd, doesn't it? If it was just flu I would let him be but seeing as it is something a bit more serious, I thought I'd drop in and check on my little brother. Where is he?"

John nodded his head towards the bedroom. Mycroft gave a pleasant smile and walked down the hallway, still in his overcoat.

Mycroft closed the door softly behind him and stood near the window, watching Sherlock sleep restlessly. Sherlock, lost in a trance between not quite awake and yet not quite asleep, coughed. Mycroft could see his hand snake out from under the duvet and feel around for the tissue box. Feeling a bit of sympathy, Mycroft located the box on the nightstand and walked the few paces to hand it to his brother.

"Thank you, John." Sherlock's congested voice said before he blew his nose.

"You're welcome." Mycroft said, placing the tissue box on the corner of the nightstand. "And it's not John."

"Obviously." Sherlock had cracked open his eyes. "What are you doing here?"

Memories of camp came flooding back into Sherlock's fevered mind.

"John told me you were ill."

"So? I've been ill before and you haven't come."

"This is a bit more serious than before."

"Then I'm going to die and you thought it would be nice to say your good-byes?"

"No, that's not it at all." Mycroft said.

"So I'm not going to die?"

"I've told you before, Sherlock. Everyone dies eventually."

Something told Mycroft that this probably wasn't the answer to give at this particular moment but his answer was so engraved in him that he couldn't think of anything else to say.

"But not now?" Sherlock, on the other hand, didn't know what Mycroft was thinking and in his condition, he had questioned if this might actually be his end.

"No, of course not. You're in very capable hands. John and Mrs. Hudson are taking good care of you."

"Mhmm." Sherlock's eyes had slid closed again.

"You should go back to sleep." Mycroft said, reaching for the door knob. "Feel better, Sherlock."

Sherlock didn't answer and Mycroft rejoined John and Mrs. Hudson in the living room.

"He is going to be alright, isn't he?" Mycroft asked in a very serious tone. It lacked the sarcasm that he normally used when referring to Sherlock and John could see the sincerity in his eyes.

"He's very ill, Mycroft, but the antibiotics will begin to work soon. He's been on them for almost three days. I would safely say that within the next two to four days, we'll see a big improvement."

"What sort of improvement are we talking about?"

"Well, for starters his temperature will go down and stay down, his sinuses and lungs will begin to clear up. After a few more days, he'll start being more alert and less tired-feeling."

"How long will it be till he is completely back to normal?"

"Like I said, he should start feeling better in a couple of days but it's very important that he finishes the bottle of antibiotics and rests for at least a week afterwards. None of this running all over London business."

Mycroft finally cracked a thin smile.

"You will never be able to confine him to bed rest, John."

"I know." John said. "I'll be lucky if I can confine him to the flat."

Mycroft stood up to go, pulling his leather gloves on.

"Well, please keep me up-to-date on his condition. I want an update at least once a day."

John raised an eyebrow and then nodded.

"Alright, if you insist."

Mycroft was already half way out the door but paused and turned to look at John.

"I do. You may not believe it, John, but I do actually care about my brother."

"Of course you do." Mrs. Hudson piped up. "Otherwise you wouldn't have come for a visit. Are you sure you don't want to stay for supper?"

"No, thank you, Mrs. Hudson. I have a meeting to get to. And John, don't forget what I said. At least once a day."

"I won't forget." John promised.

**Well, what do you think? I know it's a bit shorter than the others but it was a spur of the moment chapter. Besides, I want to have another chapter posted before school starts on Monday. It *should* be the last one but you never know with me, plus I have a super-cute epilogue planned. **

**Review? **


	10. The Woman

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. Many of the concepts and lines from the chapter are from the episodes and I am merely borrowing. **

**Hello, everyone! Like I said, school starts tomorrow so I had to write the last chapter tonight. I hope it doesn't disappoint – I'm not sure I like it but it's what I can do for now. Epilogue to follow as soon as possible. Enjoy, and as always, thanks for the reviews/reads/faves! **

John kept his promise to Mycroft, texting him at breakfast, supper, and bedtime. Sherlock slowly started getting better, his temperature slowly dropping and his sleep, while still occupying almost his entire day, became more restful. John and Mrs. Hudson continued their vigil anti of watching over their friend. Be that as it may, according to Sherlock, a third care-giver came two nights after Mycroft's visit.

It had been Sherlock's best day yet, staying awake for a full two hours in the morning and three hours after lunch, which he managed to convince Mrs. Hudson to let him have on the sofa. He had eaten supper in his bed, after a short afternoon nap, and felt strong enough to take a shower. It had been days since he had bathed fully. The hot steam did wonders on his sinuses and he crawled back into bed twenty minutes later feeling clean and refreshed, although exhausted. John knocked on the door before coming in with Sherlock's evening medication and a glass of juice. By now, they had developed a routine. Sherlock would take the pills, knowing he had to complete the glass of juice to satisfy John. He would hand the glass over to John, who would then hand him the thermometer (that is, the nights Sherlock was awake enough to accept it. Any other night, John would coax in what juice he could before slipping the thermometer into Sherlock's mouth.). After recording the reading in a notebook that had appeared on the nightstand, John would ask if Sherlock needed anything. Already dozing off, Sherlock normally mumbled a refusal before John would turn off the light and close the door.

That night was no different, except Sherlock opened his eyes after John had left, fighting himself to stay awake and stare into the darkness. He had always found comfort in the all-knowing power of darkness and he could stare at the black ceiling for hours when he was well. However, he was not well and Sherlock's eyes soon slid closed despite his attempts to keep himself alert.

Sherlock jolted awake in the middle of the night, his breathing rapid and he no longer felt clean. Rather, his skin was clammy and stuck to the bed sheets.

"Bad dream?" a voice, a _female_ voice, asked from the corner of the room. Sherlock sat up in a hurry, turning on the lamp. Out of the shadows came a very attractive woman in a sexy dress, her lips blood red.

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock asked as Irene leaned on the end of his sleigh bed.

"I couldn't resist checking in on my favourite consulting detective once I found out he was ill. How are you feeling, by the way?"

"How did you know I was ill?" Sherlock asked. Irene smiled mysteriously.

"I know someone at the pharmacy. Well, I know what he likes."

"And you just happen to ask him for a favour the same week I have a prescription filled?"

"You never answered my question." Irene ignored his arched eyebrow and piercing stare. "How do you feel?"

"I'm fine."

"Oh, I don't know about that." Irene said in her silky voice, moving from the end of the bed and coming to sit on the edge of it. She laid a slender and pale hand, accented by a large ring on her pointer finger, on Sherlock's cheek and moved it up under his curls.

"You've got a fever."

"Yes." Sherlock said, wary of the woman's touch.

"Lie back." Irene instructed, reaching to the nightstand for the dried out compress that was sitting there. Sherlock obeyed, watching as she dipped its folder corner in a glass of water that had been pushed to the side. She delicately pressed the cool cloth against Sherlock's skin, working her way across his brow, down his cheeks, and onto his neck.

"Shh. Close your eyes." Irene soothed and Sherlock, as much as he wanted to fight it, fell back asleep. He awoke next in the pale sunlight coming through the window. Again, he sat straight up, his breathing rapid, trying to figure out if it had been a dream or reality. Sherlock hated the fact he couldn't trust his mind to tell him what was real and what wasn't. His eyes searched over the window sill for a sign of entry and found nothing in the corner where the figure had emerged. Sherlock's eyes finally fell on the nightstand, where he saw the folded compress. He reached out and grasped it in this hand and he felt it. The corner was still damp. Sherlock smiled as there was a soft knock on the door.

"Sherlock, are you awake?" Mrs. Hudson's voice carried through.

"Yes."

The door opened and Mrs. Hudson came in with his breakfast tray.

"Good morning, dear. How are you doing this morning?"

Sherlock let himself fall back against the headboard.

"I'm fine."

Mrs. Hudson chuckled as the set the tray across his lap.

"I don't care what the thermometer says, I know you're starting to get better when you insist you're fine. Enjoy your breakfast."

Sherlock thanked the landlady and began eating, grateful his appetite was finally coming back. He ate just about everything on the spread and was staring at the ceiling when John came in.

Like their evening routine, John had developed a pattern for the morning as well.

"'Morning." John said.

"Good morning." Sherlock answered, sitting up. John, like always, slid the thermometer under Sherlock's tongue before taking his stethoscope and listening to Sherlock breathe.

"Good, your lungs are better than yesterday. I bet that shower helped a bit."

Sherlock couldn't respond until John pulled the thermometer from his lips. While he read it, Sherlock lay back down and resumed looking at the ceiling.

"Irene was here last night." Sherlock said suddenly.

"Sorry, what?" John's response was momentarily delayed as he recorded the reading in the log.

"Irene was here. She came to check on me."

"Are you sure you didn't just dream it, Sherlock? Irene Adler wouldn't risk coming back to London, would she?"

"She did."

That was all Sherlock said and John merely shrugged. He left and returned with medication for Sherlock to take.

"The antibiotics seem to be working well." John said, taking the glass from Sherlock. "Your temperature came down drastically last night. You must feel quite a bit better."

"I'm fine." Sherlock said, averting his eyes from the ceiling to John. "But I'm bored."

John sighed.

"You can come into the living room and watch telly if you like. Or you can read a book."

"Can I work on my expirem-"

"No." Sherlock hadn't even finished the word 'experiment' before John had ruled out the idea.

"You may be feeling better now, Sherlock, but your body still has work to do until you're ready to go back to your normal pace. Come on, let's watch telly. I bet there's some CSI or something on."

John knew that Sherlock didn't really like watching CSI – he always complained that their investigations took much longer than needed – but he wanted Sherlock to get out of bed and start being a little more active.

By lunch time, John was ready to move out and find a different flat mate. Sherlock had reached that stage of being sick enough that he wasn't able to leave the flat but not sick enough to be confined to bed. He had very quickly tired of CSI and John, feeling sympathetic, had agreed to play a game of Clue. It had not ended well, with Sherlock taking the clue board and putting his jack knife through it. Mrs. Hudson had not yet seen the game board pinned to her wall and John was grateful that Sherlock could blame his actions on his illness.

John had agreed that Sherlock could pick up his violin and for an hour after lunch, the flat was filled with Sherlock's compositions, which John felt was a nice change from the stuffy silence. After awhile, the music stopped and Sherlock, worn out at last, ambled off to his room for a short nap.

Supper was uneventful and soon John came into the room to give Sherlock his medication. His temperature was still elevated but nothing to be overly concerned about.

"You should get a good night's sleep."

"When can I leave the flat?" Sherlock asked.

"After your temperature has been normal for 24 hours. I suspect," John continued, knowing what Sherlock's next question would be. "That that will be within the next couple of days. Do you need anything else?"

Sherlock shook his head, eyes already locked on the ceiling, lost somewhere in his mind palace. Yes, even though John would argue that he was not normal yet, Sherlock concluded it felt good to be back to normal.

**Reviews are always appreciated!**

**Epilogue ASAP. **


	11. Untitled

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. **

**Hey, everyone! Sorry it's been so long for the epilogue – school has just been CRAZY. Anyways, I hope you enjoy it! **

Sherlock recovered nicely over the next few days and no more than exactly 24 hours after his temperature had been normal, he had been out on the streets of London, annoying Lestrade and just about every other officer on duty. John was glad to see his friend recovered. It had been stressful watching him be so ill and knowing that as a doctor, there was nothing more he could be doing to ease Sherlock's bout with pneumonia.

With Sherlock gone to heaven-knows-where one chilly afternoon in early March, John made himself a nice cup of tea and settled down to update his blog. He clicked open the link and saw that he had a surprising number of new comments from what should have been a two-week outdated post. His eyebrows knitting together, John clicked on the icon that took him to the comments before he realized what had happened. Furiously, he scrolled to the top of the page and began to read.

* * *

The Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson

* * *

6th March

Untitled

Forgive me, bloggers, but it is Sherlock typing. I have hacked into John's blog to clarify a few small items, none of which include the fact that John needs to learn to select better passwords.

First, I feel it important to point out that pneumonia is not exclusively a winter illness. John's assumption was that I had caught flu. He was wrong. I was diagnosed and treated for pneumonia, of which I have almost successfully recovered.

Second, if John had been paying attention at all on February 26, he would have noted that I was not asleep. His anger over my leaving the flat was completely misdirected. Instead of being annoyed with me pursuing a case, or even with Detective Inspector Lestrade, he should be angry at himself for his lack of observational skills.

Third, I find it a bit hard to believe that a medical man with such expertise would have to rely on luck to nurse his patient (as much as I hate to admit that that is what I was) back to health and yet people kept saying it to him. I would like to clearly state that there is no such thing as luck. Merely people who know what they are doing and will succeed at it and people who have no idea what they are doing and will fail in any endeavours they may make.

All this being said, I feel it obligatory to public state my appreciation to the good doctor and Mrs. Hudson, without whom I would have suffered even more greatly, perhaps to the point of death.

SH

PS – Mrs. Hudson, your sweater, while nicely made, does not fit under my suit jackets. SH

**7 Reviews**

* * *

Sherlock, are you sure you should be on John's laptop? He did say for you to rest. And is it possible for you to not wear a suit jacket? I don't want you to have a relapse.

Mrs Hudson 6 March 14:37

* * *

Glad you're feeling better, Sherlock. Text me when you're free, I may have a case for you.

Greg Lestrade 6 March 17:23

* * *

I'm glad you're better, Sherlock. You gave Mrs. Hudson quite a scare.

Marie Turner 6 March 19:46

* * *

Sherlock! So glad that you're okay now. Let me know if you need anything in the next few days to pass the time – I know how boring recovering can be. Molly xoxo

Molly Hooper 6 March 23:13

* * *

The sick freak is now a healthy freak. Goody.

sallydonovan 7 March 06:22

* * *

I told you he appreciates you, John! Call me and we can arrange for a chat.

Harry Watson 7 March 08:58

* * *

So glad you're better, Sherlock. It'd be awfully lonely without you to play the game.

Anonymous 7 March 10:18

* * *

Even while John shuddered at the last comment, he felt a sense of friendship fill him, warming him more than his tea was. It felt nice to be appreciated for what he did, even in so few words. He just hoped that Sherlock would take better care of himself in the future – nursing a sick consulting detective in a city so filled with crime was no small feat and John did not want to have to deal with again any time soon. Maybe he'd try to convince Sherlock to take a multi-vitamin.

**Review? **

**Well, I am sad to say that this is the end … but, believe, my dear readers! I have more stories working around in my mind! Watch for the updates for new stories … it may take awhile now that I have no life outside of school but they will come, I promise! Thank you for all the reads/reviews/faves/follows! You guys are the best =) **

**Thanks again and happy reading and writing,**

**StoryLover18 **


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